


a plague (o' both your houses)

by MercutioLives



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anarchy, Fire, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plague, Sickfic, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"He felt like he was floating; nothing quite made sense, and all of his thoughts felt stretched-thin and distorted."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a plague (o' both your houses)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Arkadian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/gifts).



> I blame [The_Arkadian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian) for this. It's entirely their fault. They made me do it.

He felt like he was floating; nothing quite made sense, and all of his thoughts felt stretched-thin and distorted. Breathing was a chore; he felt a faint, warm, trickling wetness over his upper lip; when he tried to open his eyes, his head throbbed fiercely and he was forced to shut them again. A ragged sound, like a moan that was nearly a sob, hit his ears and – had that come from him? He wasn't sure. Everything felt so very far away. He wanted to sleep. Despite the floating feeling, everything was so heavy and he couldn't move.

"Don't you dare!" A voice, thick and harsh as if it had been weeping, crashed against his ears as if he'd been physically hit; he flinched. The voice came again, louder than before: "Damn you, Mercutio, don't you _dare_ die on me! Do you hear me, you intolerable ass? _Stay awake!_ " He knew the voice, he was sure, but he'd never heard it quite like this. He struggled to place its origin, but ultimately, it required too much effort. Another voice, softer and more gentle, whispered something he didn't catch. The first voice exhaled harshly. A hand on his face, callused but startlingly tender, and another plea of _stay awake_.

"Tybalt," murmured a different voice (the whisperer from before?), "Tybalt, you shouldn't be here. There's still time – you can leave the city, meet up with Julia and Romeo. He – he wouldn't want you to risk yourself." With this voice speaking the name of the first, memories began to slot into place. An outbreak, some kind of virus, had taken hold of Verona. People dropping like flies, dying in agony, bodies burning like it was the Middle Ages during the Black Plague. His uncle had gotten sick and died shortly after the initial outbreak, leaving himself and his brother (it was Valentine's voice that spoke now) in charge of arranging evacuations of healthy citizens. Romeo and Julia had been among the first to be sent away, after a battery of medical examinations and careful sterilization; Mercutio had personally made certain that they got out before the situation was too dire. Benvolio, too, against his will. The houses of both Montague and Capulet had crumbled, as had much of the city; now Mercutio himself was infected. Tybalt had refused to go as well, though for what reason, he couldn't say. He would have assumed that the dour Capulet would wish to follow his beloved cousin, to protect her, but he was here. Not long after, Verona had fallen into anarchy, with neither Mercutio nor Valentine's authority holding any more weight in the eyes of the people.

"Go," he moaned, finally managing to pry apart his eyelids, which felt plastered together. (They were, his eyelashes crusted with dried blood and pus.) Tybalt looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his lips pursed into a thin line. Mercutio coughed wetly, blood and phlegm and sputum dribbling down his chin. It was wiped away immediately with a damp cloth.

"Like fuck I will," Tybalt snapped. "You got Julia out safe, the least I can do is –" There was a muffled sound, obscured by static, and he fell silent. Valentine spoke up moments later.

"The borders have just been closed," he reported somberly, "no one in or out. Anyone attempting to leave the city is to be shot on sight, likewise anyone attempting to smuggle anything in." Mercutio grimaced, coughed again, and submitted to Tybalt's careful ministrations. Time passed as he faded in and out of consciousness. Once, when he woke, it was to Tybalt whispering softly, his eyes squeezed shut, a rosary clutched between his clasped hands. He'd never thought Tybalt Capulet to be the religious type, despite that he always wore a cross around his neck: he thought perhaps it was only for show, as for so many others. He closed his eyes again, lulled by the sound of that deep, soothing murmur. Time escaped his grasp, and it felt like a long while before he was awake again. He inhaled, a hideous, rattling drag, and groped blindly for Tybalt's hand. Long, warm fingers closed around his, while Tybalt's voice murmured his name. He tasted blood as it poured from his nose and past his lips, and smelled the unpleasant reek of vomit and his own unwashed body. He grimaced; was he to die in squalor, then?

"Need…a bath," he wheezed. "Can't…like this…" Tybalt seemed to flounder briefly, uncertain what it was Mercutio was trying to say, then he shook his head.

"Vain creature." Was that a laugh? Mercutio couldn't tell, but he hoped so. He tried to grin in return, but it was painful, splitting his chapped lips. "Fine, I'll be back in a moment." It took significantly longer than a moment, but Tybalt eventually returned with a rag and a bucket of steaming water. Again, Mercutio thought derisively of the Middle Ages, though he made no complaint while Tybalt undressed him. His clothes were stiff with dried sweat and blood and other fluids he didn't even want to guess at, and he saw Tybalt flinch at the sight of his naked body. Large patches of dark purple bruising mingled with a painful red rash, and he couldn't help but hiss whenever Tybalt passed across one of these places. Still, as Tybalt bathed him gently with cautious swipes of the warm, wet cloth, he found that he felt marginally better: more at ease, at the very least. He made a half-mumbled joke about feeling like a kitten being groomed by its mother, which prompted an indignant snort from the otherwise silent Capulet.

Once the makeshift ablutions were complete, Mercutio allowed Tybalt to help him dress in clean clothing, and only complained a little to be hefted up in strong arms while someone (servants?) stripped the bed and replaced the soiled bedclothes with fresh. The quilt was tucked up around his shoulders, and he was already drowsing by the time he felt warm lips faintly brush his forehead, so he hadn't the energy or presence of mind to be surprised. He had no notion of how long he'd slept, though he didn't think it was terribly long, before he was woken – this time by Valentine, who looked gaunt, with deep, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"We have to go," he whispered. Mercutio then realized it was dark, and Tybalt was nowhere to be seen. He made a quizzical sound in his throat as his brother threw back the covers and helped him out of bed. His legs gave out at once, and only Valentine's grip around his waist kept him from falling to the floor in a heap. He tried to stand again, with much the same result. "The palace is under attack. The east wing is ablaze, and the premises has been breached." As Valentine explained, the smell of smoke began to permeate the air: the fire had already reached them.

"Tybalt," Mercutio protested, looking around for the Capulet. "Where's Tybalt?"

As he tried and failed once more to get his brother steady on his feet, it was made clear to Valentine that walking was beyond him; he lifted Mercutio in his arms, trying not to think of what it meant that he didn't so much as stagger under his weight.

"He went to help the staff. He'll be alright, but we have to go now." Mercutio wanted to protest, but a sudden breath of smoke reduced his words to a violent cough. Valentine held more tightly to his elder brother as he navigated the darkened halls of the west wing, all the while trying not to inhale the smoke that thickened the air. Eventually, he found what he was looking for, and threw his body against one of the panels of the corridor wall. Nothing. He tried again, and this time it gave, opening into a hidden passageway little bigger than a crawlspace. Navigating it was difficult with Mercutio in his arms, but he managed, all the while murmuring soft reassurances to his brother, who was now wheezing fitfully. The passage opened up into a small room, sparsely furnished with a pair of cots and a naked lightbulb suspended from the ceiling. He lay Mercutio down on the left-hand cot, then turned on the light; it flickered briefly, then steadied, but it was dim and barely enough to see by.

Mercutio was gasping for breath now, unable even to cough. There was a small, knobless door off to the side of the room, revealing a closet that was little more than a broom cupboard – and from this room he retrieved one of several gallon jugs of water and a small plastic cup of the sort one might buy for children. He poured a measure of water into the cup (it was room temperature, but better than nothing) and held it to Mercutio's lips, supporting him into a half-upright position with his free arm.

"Slowly," he murmured as his brother drank, though most of it spilled down his chin. It seemed to help, at least slightly, for he was able to cough and draw in a shaky, wheezy breath. "There we are." Setting the cup on the floor, he passed a hand across Mercutio's brow, then returned to the storage closet, where he found a walkie talkie that would be linked to those carried by the palace guard. After checking the batteries (he knew that his uncle had staff specifically to ensure that the supplies in this room were always usable) he managed to get in touch with Captain Andretti to inform him that they were safe. Mercutio rasped a sound that Valentine could only vaguely presume was Tybalt's name.

"Locate Tybalt Capulet, and have one of your men escort him to our location. Over." Andretti confirmed receipt of the order, and roughly forty-five minutes later, Tybalt's tall form appeared in the doorway. Mercutio had fallen into a fitful doze, with Valentine occupying the empty cot and watching him carefully; he started when Tybalt approached and promptly sat himself on the floor next to Mercutio, folding his body with a grace that should have been impossible for such a gangly man. Valentine averted his gaze.

Mercutio started awake when Tybalt's hand closed around his, and gave a feeble smile. He watched Tybalt attempt a smile in return, but he'd never been very good at such things, so when it ended up more of a grimace, Mercutio was wholly unsurprised.

"Knew you…were impervious to…fire," he wheezed, barely audible. A sound like a weary chuckle was Tybalt's response.

"And you talk so much that Death can't stand to be near you," he retorted. "So I suppose neither of us is in much immediate danger, hm?" Mercutio's laughter was hideous and wet-sounding, and Tybalt winced to hear it. Fortunately, he managed to avoid another coughing fit. Tybalt spied the cup on the floor next to him, and helped Mercutio to drink a few cautious sips.

"Go to sleep," he said, and Mercutio thought he could detect in his voice the thickness of unshed tears. How strange. "The guard will come to fetch us once they have an all-clear." Exhausted, Mercutio didn't so much as act like he wanted to protest. His fingers gave Tybalt's a weak squeeze, and his breathing, ragged though it was, evened out slightly as he fell asleep. Time passed sluggishly from then on, punctured occasionally Valentine walkie-ing Andretti for updates, or by abortive and awkward attempts at quiet conversation. Hours ticked by, and Tybalt and Valentine took turns napping on the empty cot, the other moving to sit beside Mercutio. It was Valentine's turn to sleep when a queer feeling settled over the room. It took Tybalt several minutes to place what was wrong, and when he did, he felt a sickness churn in his gut: the air, which had hitherto been punctured by Mercutio's laboured breathing, was now nearly silent. Valentine breathed evenly in his sleep, but there was nothing at all from Mercutio. Tybalt nudged him, calling his name, but he did not respond.

Behind him, Valentine sat up, blearily rubbing one eye – but when he saw what Tybalt was doing, he was brought suddenly to complete awareness.

"No," he whimpered, "no, no, no. _Please_ , no." As Valentine came to kneel beside him, Tybalt checked Mercutio's wrist for a pulse; there was none. He sat back on his knees, not quite able to process the fact that Mercutio was dead. Valentine wailed, an awful, high-pitched keening that might have caused Tybalt to flinch were he not rendered utterly numb to his surroundings. During the months since the initial outbreak, he had allowed himself to compartmentalize the fact that no one who was infected by the virus had ever recovered: he had focused instead on taking things one day at a time, especially once Mercutio had become too sick to care for himself and the running of the city had fallen to Valentine. Even during the fire, he had a purpose, and could thusly push from his mind the knowledge that this would eventually happen. He was unsure when Valentine had come to curl up in his lap, but this was how they were found about an hour later by Captain Andretti and a squad of palace guards. The captain of the guard, who was normally stone-faced and the picture of professionalism, looked stricken by the tableau before him and hesitated before addressing his report to Tybalt.

"Sir, the situation is under control. The east wing was gutted by the flames, but we managed to salvage a portion of the west wing, including –" Here, he hesitated, glancing briefly at the body upon the cot. "Including His Highness' rooms." Tybalt was momentarily confused, for the Prince's rooms were not in the west wing, until he remembered that the Prince had died, and Mercutio had inherited. He had forgotten about such things, too busy to equate the dying man in his care with the ruler of Verona. Now, however, he supposed the station would fall to Valentine, for whatever that was worth. One of the guardsmen cautiously approached the cot on which Mercutio lay, but Tybalt pulled back his lips and hissed, sounding for all the world like the cat to which Mercutio had always likened him. He nudged Valentine, whose sobs had been reduced now to quiet whimpers, into an upright position, at which point Tybalt nodded for one of the guards to help him to his feet. He moved like a ragdoll, limp and pliable, and said nothing. Tybalt himself lifted Mercutio into his arms, his body still flaccid, almost as if he were merely asleep.

The funeral service – such as it was – occurred two days after the fire. Valentine was still practically catatonic, staring blankly and only occasionally making soft, shuddering whimpers. Tybalt spoke, but only briefly, for he'd never been much good at public speaking and there was no real benefit to doing so as the only people present were a handful of the household staff that still lived and a small contingent of palace guards, including Captain Andretti. When it was finished, the body was cremated and the ashes placed into an urn which was given to Tybalt (initially, it was handed to Valentine, who broke from his stupor and began to sob, nearly dropping it in the process). The days and weeks that followed were uncomfortable and hollow-seeming; Tybalt took control in managing what remained of the household in Valentine's stead. It was nearly a month after Mercutio's death that he noticed a small, painful red spot on the back of his left hand, then another on his hip. Gripped by a sudden, terrible madness, he began to laugh.

Perhaps Mercutio was hovering yet, waiting for Tybalt to join him.

 


End file.
